I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

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Lorn strode to Tool’s side. The T’lan Imass faced west, and a tension swirled about him that she could almost see.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes on the white fountain of fire rising above the horizon. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Nor I,” Tool replied. “It is within the barrier I have cast around us.”

“But that’s impossible,” the Adjunct snapped.

“Yes, impossible to last this long. Its source should have been consumed almost instantly. Yet…” The T’lan Imass fell silent.

There was no need for Tool to finish his sentence. The pillar of fire still raged in the night sky as it had for the past hour. The stars swam in the inky darkness around it, magic swirling in a frenzy as if from a bottomless well. On the wind was a smell that left Lorn slightly nauseous. “Do you recognize the Warren, Tool?”

“I thought there were but three Elder Warrens, and that’s not one of them.”

“Three? No, there were many, Adjunct, all born of one. Starvald Demelain.”

Lorn wrapped her cloak tighter about herself, eyes on the column of fire. “Who could manage such a conjuring?”

“There was one…once. Of worshipers there are none left, so he is no more. I have no answer to your question, Adjunct.” The Imass staggered as the pillar bloomed outward, then winked out. A distant thundering rumble reached them.

“Gone,” Lorn whispered.

“Destroyed,” Tool said. The warrior cocked his head. “Strange, the source is indeed destroyed. But something has also been born. I sense it, a new presence.”

Lorn checked her sword. “What is it?” she demanded.

Tool shrugged. “New. It flees.”

Was this cause for worry? Lorn scowled and turned to the T’lan Imass, but he had already left her side, and was now striding back to their campfire. The Adjunct glanced once more at the western horizon. There was a cloud, blotting out the stars. It looked huge…

…She stepped close to the Imass. “Fire is life,” she whispered, the phrase seeming to rise from the depths of instinct.

Tool nodded. “Life is fire,” He said. “With such words was born the First Empire. The Empire of Imass, the Empire of Humanity.”

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